


Remember

by grey2510



Series: Longer Misc SPN Fics (10k+ words) [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Dean, Canon-Typical Violence, Cas Sam and Mary are only mentioned, Coming Out, Gen, M/M, Post-Episode: s12e08 LOTUS, Pre-Relationship, Torture, but it's mostly off screen, ish, it's not graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 11:05:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9381704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/pseuds/grey2510
Summary: US Agents think they can break Dean, but their attempts send Dean to a limbo where he finds some familiar, long gone (but not forgotten) faces. All they need him to do is remember...remember what he has.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This will definitely get jossed when the new episode airs, but *shrug*.
> 
>  
> 
> WARNING: There are references to Dean's childhood that imply that John was abusive (neglect and emotional abuse, mostly, but there's a couple bits of dialogue from the show that I've used here that imply John might have hit Dean once or twice). I really don't go into it more than what we already see in canon, but just wanted to give you a heads up.

“Rise and shine, son.”

Dean’s eyes snap open.

That voice…

He hasn’t heard that voice in years; even its formidable presence running commentary on his life in his mind has (mostly) faded to the background over the past— _Jesus_ —ten years.

“D-Dad?” Dean says, sitting up in the passenger seat of the Impala. As if this couldn’t get any weirder.

“In the flesh. Or something like that,” John nods, his eyes not leaving the road.

Outside, some nameless Midwest road stretches. John looks younger than he did when he died, but not as young as when Dean got zapped back to the 70s. If Dean weren’t convinced he’s hallucinating or on some sort of bad trip, he wouldn’t be surprised to see a young Sammy curled up in the backseat. He glances back just for confirmation, but there’s no Sammy. Just him and Dad.

In the side mirror, Dean catches his own appearance: he looks the same as remembers, although he’s pretty sure the cell he’s been stuck in the last few weeks ain’t doing anything for his rugged good looks. He eyes John again. Hell, they’re probably about the same age: thirty-seven...or— _shit_ —is he thirty-eight now? Even with tally marks on the wall, it’s hard to keep track. Maybe it’s his birthday. Maybe he’s only been in that damn place for a week but the guards have just been fucking with him, turning the lights off every few hours so it seems like night. Who knows.

“I thought you were dead.”

John just grimaces, and that’s all the answer Dean needs.

Dean looks back at the road. It’s unchanging: miles and miles of flat prairies below a cloudless blue sky. It looks like something out of the movies. It might as well be.

“So, what is this? Am _I_ dead?”

“Not yet,” John says, blunt as ever.

“Wow, real comforting,” Dean shoots back.

John fixes him with a look, completely ignoring the road. Not that it really matters here, wherever here is. Dean thinks his dad could probably take his hands off the wheel completely, crawl in the back seat for a snooze (or a cold one—or both), and Baby would just cruise on.

“This ain’t gonna work if you’re gonna be dense about it,” his father tells him.

“Uh,” is Dean’s eloquent reply. “Need a little more to go on.”

“You need to remember.”

“Remember _what_?”

John clenches his jaw and shakes his head, looking back out the windshield. “Thought I raised you better than this.”

It’s all Dean can do not to rise to that bait. Twenty-odd years of being daddy’s little soldier wars with ten years of being his own man—well, more so than he was before. If this were John and Sam, this conversation would already have erupted in a full-blown argument. Dean swallows his anger down, and instead replies, “Yeah, well, get used to disappointments.”

“You trying to be funny?”

“No, _sir_.”

John’s eyes snap to him at the insolence. A decade ago, Dean wouldn’t have dared. Twenty, twenty-five years ago, he might have, and would have expected a smack up the side of the head for it, till he wised up and stopped pulling that whiny rebellious teenager bullshit (or, saved it for school and every other authority figure out there except his father).

Now, Dean finds he doesn’t really give a shit.

“Come again?” John’s voice is low and dangerous.

“Look, _Dad_ , if you even really are my father in this wacky acid trip, you’ve been dead over ten years. From where I’m sitting, you look like you’re my age. And the stuff me ‘n Sammy’ve been through since you died wasn’t even on your radar. No offense, but if I’m going to listen to a father-figure at this point, it ain’t you.”

They lock eyes, both glaring. Dean’s heart is beating faster than he’d like to admit, all those old fears of disappointing his father, of knowing to never _ever_ disobey, clawing at him. All those times he stepped in between John and Sam, even if he somehow knew that John would never raise a hand to Sam, all those times he just wanted to yell at Sam to just knock it the fuck off and just _listen_ to Dad without starting shit, while inside being almost envious of his little brother’s gall, his unwillingness to be cowed.

But that’s because Sam never knew.

_“A little more tequila and a little less demon hunting, and we would’ve had Max’s childhood.”_

_No, Sam._ _You would never have had Max’s childhood. Because I was there._

Sure, Dean will admit he didn’t even have Max’s childhood, thank whatever god is out there that might actually give a damn (because Chuck sure as shit doesn’t). But there are things…

_“Well, you don’t remember, do you? You ran away on my watch. I looked everywhere for you. I thought you were dead. And when Dad came home..."_

_“Dean, look, I’m sorry. I never thought about it like that.”_

Of course he didn’t. Because Dean never let him, never wanted him to.

But screw this. He’s a goddamn adult now. He’s done and seen shit his father never dreamed of. He’s not some scared kid anymore.

“Pull the car over.”

John stares straight ahead. “I can’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I’m not driving it. You are.”

Dean frowns at that. “Look, Dad, you been out of the mechanic business awhile, but even you know that the one behind the wheel’s the one who’s driving.”

“You got damn mouthy after I died, didn’t you?”

“Like I said, get used to disappointments.”

The car is stopped, and Dean registers that it’s no longer daylight. They’re outside what looks like a typical roadhouse: some rusty trucks, a few tired campers, and a herd of bikes are parked out front, a neon beer sign flickers from a window, a shitty hand-painted sign tacked next to the door offers ten-cent wings on Thursdays.

John reaches for the door handle, but he pauses before opening it. “I’m not disappointed in you.”

It takes Dean a full thirty seconds to process that—or at least, shove it down into some corner of his brain—and follow John out into the parking lot.

Inside the roadhouse, a cloud of cigarette and cigar smoke hangs like a fog. Dean nearly gags, surprised. It’s been awhile since he’s been in a bar that allows smoking—especially to this degree. Even in states with no ban, it’s still not as common as it was when he was…

...a kid.

_Jesus Christ._

Because there he is, aged maybe seven, sitting on one side of a booth, coloring on a table mat with one of the four crappy crayons that probably came free with a meal for a three-year-old Sammy, who is kneeling opposite, coloring with a lot more enthusiasm. Judging from the way his younger self’s eyes keep darting between Sammy and the table nearby where a young John sits with another man, Dean knows that the boy’s interest in drawing is only to keep Sam occupied while John meets with a hunting contact.    

From where he’s standing, he should be able to make out what John and the other hunter— _Holy shit, is that Daniel Elkins?_ —are saying, but he can only catch a phrase or a word here and there. He tries moving closer, but John—the John he walked in with—shakes his head.

“It won’t help. You won’t be able to hear it all.”

“And this would be because…?”

John shrugs. “It’s your memory, not mine.”

“Fucking peachy,” Dean sighs in response. “But you’re here. Not him-you, you-you. You remember. Can’t you tell me what’s goin’ on?”

There’s a look on his father’s face that Dean would peg as grief, but also...regret? Apology? Definitely not expressions he’s used to seeing on John.

“Whatever,” he mutters when his father offers no other response, and decides if he’s going to get Scrooged, he might as well pay attention.   

Three words float out from the hushed and mumbled conversation that make Dean’s hair stand on end. Young John looks just as spooked—and angry.

_Campbells._

_Colt._

_Lawrence._

Dean rounds on John, ignoring the scene behind him. This part, he vaguely remembers anyway: John grabbing him and Sammy from the booth and the other man, who is definitely Daniel Elkins, calling after them, “I didn’t know, John!”

“You stay the hell away from me and my boys,” Young John snarls from behind Dean, but Dean is staring at his father, the one who can see him. His hands curl into fists and he doesn’t think “seething" does enough justice for what he’s feeling right now. And his father just looks back at him, utterly defeated, and there’s a small part of Dean that’s uneasy at the sight.

“John, I can help. I can teach you,” Elkins pleads.

“Dean, take your brother and wait in the car.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You knew?” Dean spits out, not at all surprised or distracted by the fact that the roadhouse has faded from view, leaving them in the parking lot of what looks like a standard issue shitty motel. “You fucking knew about Mom? The Campbells? All of it?”

John’s shoulders slump a fraction before they square off again, because John Winchester does not back down from a fight, especially not one about Mary.

“What did you want me to tell you boys?” John fires back. “Her memory was the only thing we had—that _you_ had!”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dean has never been so close to actually punching his father.

A muscle in John’s jaw tightens, and suddenly they're in the motel room where another version of Dean and Sammy are curled up on one of the queen beds. Sammy can’t be older than six, making Dean ten or so, but Sam looks even younger, nestled under a blanket.

Billings, Montana.

The place suddenly clicks in Dean’s memory. Sam came down with something nasty from school, and the next day, Dad would drop them off at Bobby's for a little while, till Sammy was all better. Those times at Bobby's were usually a bright spot, a break from the strings of motels and having to be an adult. Bobby would take them out, let them run around, be kids (unless Dad harped on him enough about weapons training). It should have been a relief, knowing someone else would take care of Sam. But those two weeks, Dean had just felt like he'd failed at his one job.

Ten-year-old Dean is reading Sam a worn and dog-eared copy of a Hardy Boys mystery; there were always a few Hardy Boys books lying around yard sales and free book tables, and Dean would snag a new one, leave an old one, if he could. Wasn’t like they had a whole lotta options. Sammy coughs, and his eyes droop.

“Dad going to be home soon?”

“Yeah, should be home tonight.”

Dean's pretty sure he'd told Sammy that the night before, too. And maybe even the night before that. 

“Ok, Dean. You can keep reading...if you want.” Sammy squirms further down into his nest of blankets.

Young Dean looks down at his brother, half in fondness and concern, half in exasperation. “You gotta sleep, Sammy, or you’re not gonna feel better.”

“One more chapter?” Damn that kid has always been good with the puppy dog eyes.

“Fine.”  

Sam only lasts maybe a page and a half before conking out. His younger self reads on his own for a few minutes, and Dean’s just about to ask why the fuck they’re still here, when the motel door opens. Quick as a flash, the kid grabs the shotgun tucked between the wall and the bed, but it’s unnecessary. It’s their father.

“Hey, son. Just me.” He looks over to the bed, dropping his duffel on the floor by the table and shrugging out of his leather jacket. “Sammy asleep already?”

“Yeah, he’s had a cold or the flu or something,” young Dean apologizes, like it’s somehow his fault that his little brother got sick. “I made him soup, though—tomato rice soup. Just like…"

The John of the memory just nods. Young Dean, almost guiltily, turns away to return the shotgun to its hiding place, but his father watches, something sad and soft in his eyes.

Dean and John are back at the car now, but outside of it, pulled off onto the shoulder of that same Midwestern road they started on.

“What the hell was that all about?” Dean asks. “That shit was dime-a-dozen for me as a kid.”

“I lost my Mary twice,” John confesses, looking away. “Once to the demon, once to the truth. I couldn’t—I couldn’t take that from you. Everything you did, taking care of Sammy—that was all her, in her memory.”

“You lied to us, Dad!” Dean fumes. “You fucking knew about the Campbells! They’re giant douchebags, but maybe, just maybe, they could’ve fucking helped!”

“That demon killed your mother, your grandfather, and your grandmother,” John shoots back. “Then it went after your mother’s friends, her acquaintances. How the hell was I supposed to know it wasn’t after all the Campbells? I hid you from them! I protected you!”

“You protected Sam!” he shouts in accusation. “You didn’t give a shit what happened to me.”

John stiffens. “That’s not true.”

“Like hell it isn’t,” Dean scoffs. “Great, you let me have the lie of Mom. The story became the story, just like it fucking always did.” He steps forward, right into his father’s space. John’s got an inch on him, but for the first time in his life, Dean feels like the bigger man. “But you took _everything_ else. You didn’t spare me anything letting me think Mom was all apple pie and the perfect mom and wife. You just confirmed what I already knew.”

“And what’s that?” John asks, his voice hard, but Dean thinks he can hear the faint cracks beneath it.

“That the only childhood, only happy life, I was ever going to get ended on November 2nd, 1983.” Dean stares John down for a second, then turns away. He runs a hand over his jaw before turning back, chuckling darkly. “And you know what the fucking hilarious part of this is? Mom’s back and one of the first things she tells me is that you were practically father of the fucking year. Christ, you two really were made for each other.”

He’s waiting for the punch, he really is. But John must read something in his eyes—and considering the shit he’s been through, Dean does _not_ want to know what his father sees there—and he backs down. Slightly.

“I tried, Dean. I thought—I thought if I could just keep you safe… I never wanted this for you. Or Sam,” John says, and Dean wants to believe him, and part of him does, but he’s heard this line before, so many goddamn times. _One more job, boys. Just one more. And then we’ll find the demon, and it’ll all be over_. Except it never was, even after they killed Azazel… Hell, that was just the beginning. “But I’m dead, Dean. Getting pissed at me isn’t going to solve anything.”

“Solve _what_ , exactly?” Dean asks, arms open. “I still got no fucking clue why I’m even here, or where here even is.”  

John sighs, but pretty much ignores Dean’s complaints. “Mary and I didn’t know each other as well as we thought. Not our pasts, not what we’d done…"

Dean raises a brow, thinking of pie-in-the-sky normal John Winchester back in the 70s, fresh back from...oh. Right.

“I was a Marine. There’s shit you don’t forget,” John answers Dean’s silent question, before he’d answered it for himself, then returns to his previous train of thought. “I loved Mary. Still do. Even when I learned who she was, who she’d always been. She was still Mary.”

“What’s your point?”

“You have a chance, Dean. To get to know her, differently than I ever did. She’s your mother—"

Dean shakes his head bitterly. “She doesn’t think so.”

But he knows that’s not true. Not entirely. It’s part of it, though: he’s not her _kid_ , Sam’s not her _baby_. Who they are to each other is messed up at _best_.

“In her own way, she does,” John says. “She would never give up on her boys. You just gotta _remember—_ "

 

 

It’s black. Pitch black.

“Remember what?” Dean shouts into the void.

He is not freaking out, he is _not..._

A spotlight blares on him from above, and he flinches, raising an arm to block as much of the overwhelming brightness as possible.

“Hello?”

His voice doesn’t echo in this expanse like it should. It’s almost muffled, dampened. The hairs on his arms stick up.

Blinking, he looks around, but outside the circle of light it’s the blackest of blacks. Even the far reaches of Hell hadn’t been this dark.

There’s movement, almost a shuffling, from his right—not quite footsteps, but near enough. Dean spins, squinting. He can just barely make out a shadowy figure.

“Who the fuck are you?”

No response.

_“He’s flatlining.”_

The voice is all around him, like a poorly tuned and staticky PA system.

“Hello!?” Dean calls out, keeping one eye on the shadowy figure.

_“You went too far.”_

_“He can take it. You read his file.”_

_“This is pointless. We can’t learn anything if he’s dead.”_

_“Give the shot.”_

_“No! Are you nuts?”_

_“That’s an order, Agent.”_

_“Yes, sir.”_

“Who the hell are you people?” But he has a feeling he knows.

His wrists are sore and chafed, but there’s no rope burn marks. Something pinches in the crook of his left arm and—

Fire.

Fire fucking _fire_.

_They’ve set me on fire I’m gonna die what the fuck fire IT’S BURNING_

“ARGHH!” he howls from the depths of his throat, his entire body shaking with pain. Some small part of his brain knows he’s not literally on fire, but every nerve in his body is screaming otherwise.

And then as suddenly as it began, it ends. He collapses to the ground, panting, still blinking in the sharp light of the overhead. The gaze of the shadowy figure seems to bore into his hunched-over back as he dry-heaves on his knees.

_“He’s back. Stabilizing, sir.”_

_“Well, let’s see what we can get out of him this time.”_

_“Sir..."_

_“Thank you. Agent.”_

_“Yes, sir.”_

_“Dean?”_

The light intensifies, and Dean half-wonders if he’s gonna get Easy Bake Ovened under this thing. His breaths are shallow and labored, but he manages to uncurl himself and rise unsteadily to his feet.

Like hell he’s gonna let these sons-of-bitches knock him down.

“Sorry, boys. Was a little distracted. What can I do ya for?” he calls out, grimacing a smile with that cockiness that has both saved his ass and nearly gotten him killed over the years.

But instead of a response, he hears his own voice on that shitty PA system. It’s slurred and slow, but it’s definitely him.

_“Hey, ‘gent..."_

_“Dean. Are you going to answer our questions now?”_

_“‘Pends. I get a cookie ifa do?”_

Dean smirks to himself, still bent in a little as he stands there in this weird-ass Matrix Construct room...minus all the blank white and access to whatever the fuck he wants. Good to know that real him, out in the real world, is still fighting the good fight.

_“Dean. You know you can make this end. Why make this harder on yourself?”_

_“S’ok, this’s fun. M’safeword’s 'keep going'...”_

_“Well. It seems we’ll just have to try again.”_

There’s another pinch in his arm, but this time it spreads through him cool like rain and his eyes droop.

_“Now, Dean, we need you to remember—”_

 

 

There’s a slight chill in the air, stiff grass pokes at the exposed skin on the back of his neck, sunlight turns the backs of his eyelids pink. He blinks, opening his eyes slowly and squinting against the light. Sitting up and looking around blearily, he registers that he’s in a field or park or something. Park, he guesses, judging by the grass that isn’t exactly golf course perfect, but is definitely more mown than untamed nature would allow.

His head is pounding, and he can almost hear, almost feel—

He swallows.

He’s about to sink his head into his hands when he catches sight of his arms: short brown sleeves over a longer greyish shirt, covered by leather cuffs that reach almost to his elbows.

_What the hell?_

He hasn’t worn this outfit in years, not since—

“What up, nerd?”

Charlie is standing in front of him, decked out in her Queen of Moons costume, holding a helmet under her arm. The sun glints off her red hair, and she looks...resplendent. If he didn’t know way too fucking much about angels, he probably would’ve asked if that’s what she is.

“Charlie?” Dean says, mouth agape.

“Abso-frakkin’-lutely,” she answers, setting the helmet by her feet and reaching down to offer him a hand up, despite the fact that she’s about ninety pounds soaking wet and he is...not. He ain’t a Sasquatch like Sammy, but he’s no delicate wallflower either. He takes her hand anyway. It’s warm and inviting and solid and strong. “Just repaying the favor, I guess. You busted me out of a djinn dream, I get to spirit guide you through...whatever this is.”

Once he’s on his feet, he immediately envelops her in a hug. She brings her hands up around his back, pats him a couple times like she’s the one who should comfort _him_.

“I am so sorry, Charlie,” he says into her hair.

Muffled against his tunic, possibly spitting out chainmail, she says, “It’s ok, Dean. I’m ok.”

He squeezes her tight once before letting go, raising a palm to his eye and definitely not wiping away a tear. Just dust. Definitely dust or something. “Fuck, Charlie. It’s not ok. You should’ve—"

“I know,” she says, a hand on his shoulder. She smiles, a little too brightly, her voice a little too nonchalant to be completely believable. “I’m just pissed it was kind of a lame way to go. Bathtub, really? I mean, I tried for the window, but it was too late and he pulled me back. Lost my knife, too, so I couldn’t even get a stab in. Totally lame. Zero outta ten, would not do again.”

“Charlie—" He has no words, and the bile is rising in the back of this throat. Seeing her like that, knowing what he did after—

“It worked, though, right? The code? It saved you?” she asks, hopeful.

“Yeah, yeah, it worked. You did good, kid,” he chokes out, unwilling or unable (he isn’t sure) to tell her what lifting the Mark did. And fuck it, he hugs her again. “Thank you.”

“It’s what family does, bro,” she says into his chest before gently pulling away. “And really, I’m fine. Been hacking Heaven—totally stole the idea from the books and your buddy Ash, who is a seriously hard dude to track down, b-t-dubs.”

Dean chuckles weakly. “Any luck hacking the joint?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Do you even know who you’re talking to, Winchester? Oh and Carrie Fisher? Totally awesome still. And totally giving the angels hell.”

“What? Princess Leia?” Dean blinks.

Charlie’s hand goes to her mouth. “Oh...you didn’t know. She hasn’t been up here—there?—long. Right after Christmas.”

“Shit.” Dean shakes his head. Like 2016 couldn’t have gotten any worse.

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”  

“And, uh…" he starts to ask, but Charlie anticipates his question.

“Han Solo might be dead—yeah, I magic-bootlegged a copy of _Force Awakens_ and _Rogue One_. Like death’d keep me from seeing the new _Star Wars_ ,” Charlie waves a hand dismissively. “But Harrison Ford’s still alive, far as I know. Don’t worry.”

“Good. And no spoilers,” Dean warns, relieved that the conversation is on somewhat easier ground, even if he still has no idea what the hell is going on.

With each hand, she draws an x just below the collarbone. “Cross my hearts.”

Dean shakes his head fondly. “Nerd.”

“You bet your britches. Which are lookin’ good, by the way,” Charlie smiles.

He gives himself a quick look. “Yeah, what’s with the LARPing get-up?”

“No idea,” she shrugs. “You’re the one running the holodeck, Captain.”

Taking a moment, Dean checks around them, looking for any sort of threat or indication of what they’re supposed to do here; he has a feeling that whatever this is, he wasn’t given this chance to see Charlie just to shoot the shit about sci-fi. But, the field is empty. Charlie’s Queen’s tent is maybe thirty feet away, but it’s all alone—no other tents or signs of the Moondoor crew.

“So...tent?” Dean asks, not having any other suggestions.

“Lead on, Macduff,” Charlie says as they start in the direction of the tent. “Did you know it’s actually—"

"‘Lay on,’” Dean finishes, rolling his eyes. “Trust me: I live with Sam. I know.”

Charlie brightens. “How is Sam?”

Dean pauses with a frown; Charlie walks an extra step before stopping, too. “I don’t know. We’ve been kept separated. And he hasn’t done…?” He gestures vaguely to their surroundings.

She shakes her head. “If he has, it hasn’t been with me.”

Something in Dean’s chest tightens. “He, uh, feels really bad, y’know, about—Ow!” He flinches at her punch to the arm.

“He better not feel guilty! I made my own decisions.” She peers at him. “And you better not have made him feel bad.”

He hangs his head in shame, earning another punch. “Dammit, Charlie.”

“No. No more self-pitying bullshit or making each other feel like dog doo-doo. Maybe Sam should’ve told you what we were doing, but you know what? I could have told you, too. There’s a lotta shoulda-coulda-wouldas. I made my choice and you two need to stop feeling guilty whenever someone gets hurt trying to help you. Crap happens. It sucks and it’s stupid but you guys can’t carry the whole weight of the world on your shoulders without help,” Charlie says, and Dean is reminded immediately why she’s Queen and an unofficial Winchester.

“Yeah. Yeah ok,” he breathes out, trying to convince himself.

“Alright, c’mon, loyal handmaiden, buck up and let’s see what’s behind door number one,” Charlie offers, taking him by his non-punched arm.

The inside of the tent is mostly the same as Dean remembers, except for where the Queen of Moons had once set up her battle plans: that table now hosts a digital projector facing the tent wall, in front of which a thick white sheet or screen hangs.

“Thought there was no modern tech in Moondoor,” Dean remarks. "’Cept for the one tent.”

Charlies frowns. “There isn’t…" Suddenly, the projector starts up, simulating movie reel whirring sounds with an old-timey black and white countdown from five. “Umm…"

Before Dean can respond, the countdown switches over to a flash of images and film clips, all to the soundtrack of “Ramble On", which, yeah, is weird enough, but it’s even weirder when they’re _all his memories_ , like someone hooked his brain right up to the projector.

And, worst of all, there’s a distinct theme to this little highlight reel.

He hopes Charlie doesn’t notice, even though he knows she definitely will.

First there’s sparks and a barn door flies open. _“I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition.”_ The line still sends shivers down Dean’s spine.

Next, a sideways glance reveals a very put-out Cas, clearly annoyed that Dean’d thrown him under the bus for summoning and trapping Raphael. A window breaks and the projector goes dark as Dean is pushed forward by Cas blocking the debris with his coat and...wings? At the time Dean had been far too focused on the whole not getting smited by Doucheael, but watching the replay triggers a fleeting feeling, a mostly forgotten sense memory. Cas had protected him from harm with not just that stupid trenchcoat, but his goddamn _wings._

He eyes Charlie, but she’s too mesmerized by the film to notice.

The images and audio clips keep going, and Dean’s slightly relieved to see some other people make cameos: Sam, Bobby, Charlie, even Crowley. But the one consistent player is Cas.

Some of them are good memories, some of them hurt like hell.

 _“I did it, all of it, for you.”_ That creepily beautiful room in Van Nuys. Cas trapped in holy fire. Cas sinking in the lake. Finding Cas in Purgatory. _“I prayed to you, Cas. Every night!”_ Lucifer’s crypt. _“We’re family. We need you. I need you.”_ Cas learning to be a hunter on that cartoon case. Sitting at the bar waiting for the Cupid to show up so Cas could shut the Gates of Heaven. The night after they’d saved Cas’ boss’ daughter from that rogue angel (and Dean’s glad the memory only covers a quick flash of Dean wrapping Cas’ injuries in the motel room, not their conversation later). Asking Cas to take him out if the Mark got to be too bad. A night of pizza and beer with Sam and Charlie, too.

“Oh…" Charlie breathes, her voice hitching a little at the image of her teaching Cas the mysterious wonders of a paper fortune teller. She reaches out to Dean’s wrist, but he moves his arm around her shoulder, and a small hand clutches the back of his jersey. That was the last time they’d all been together and happy before…

Cas, harrowed and desperate. _“Sam, and everyone you know, everyone you love, they could be long dead. Everyone except me.”_ Cas bloodied and broken under Dean holding the angel blade. He feels Charlie stiffen beside him, and he draws her closer. _“No, Dean. Please.”_

But the film doesn’t stop.

Dean’s hands cradling Cas’ jaw, helping him up after Rowena’s spell had been lifted. Lucifer trapped in holy fire, Dean’s voice calling out desperately to Cas, Lucifer twisting his friend’s face and making a mockery of Dean’s pleas. The cemetery and a tight embrace. _“I could go with you.”_ Dean holding his mother back from shooting Cas before they’d practically launched themselves into each other’s arms, Cas’ look of relief at Dean’s presence undeniable.

The film cuts out, even if that wasn’t Dean’s final memory before all of this started.

Charlie separates herself from under his arm and turns to him, looking almost guilty as if she knows she’s been made privy to something she maybe shouldn’t have.

“Montage?” she shrugs, trying to make light of the situation, even though they both know it won’t work. “Dude, that was...intense.”

“Charlie, I…" He trails off, running a hand through his hair, unsure what to say next. He clears his throat and tries to start again, but nothing comes out. “Shit,” is all he manages.

Turning away, he makes his way to the huge bed and sits on the corner, staring down at his hands between his knees. Gingerly, Charlie follows and sits next to him.

“Ok, I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess you don’t wanna talk about that. Yet. And I’m saying ‘yet’ because I kinda think talking is the whole point.” Dean ignores her, still hunched over; his elbows dig into his thighs and the pressure grounds him somehow. “Well, um, so we won’t start there. How about...where were you before you showed up here?”

Dean snorts before sitting up. “Uh, getting tortured and interrogated in the real world. Before that, driving down memory lane and having it out with my dad.”

“Oh, sorry,” Charlie says. “Not exactly cheery stuff.”

“Welcome to my life.” He gestures with a broad hand in the general direction of the projector.

Charlie fakes indignation. “Psht, you met me. And I’m awesome, so obviously your life has been awesome. You’re welcome.”

Dean gives a small laugh, and encouraged, Charlie nudges him with her shoulder. They sit for a minute quietly before Dean says, “My dad—he and I, uh, we talked about my mom. She’s back again, did you know?”

She nods. “Big news on Angel Radio. They were all pretty pissed Auntie Amara snagged a Winchester soul when the place is supposed to be on lockdown.”

“Dicks with wings,” Dean says. “Charlie, if Heaven’s all boarded up...how are you here? Or how am I here?”

Charlie shakes her head. “Not sure. I don’t think either of us are really in Heaven or on Earth. I think we’re currently in like a weird Limbo or the Veil or something. This doesn’t _feel_ like Heaven. I can’t explain it. This is more...surreal.”

“And definitely not Earth, either,” Dean agrees.

Charlie shifts on the bed. “Dean?” she says hesitantly.

“Yeah?”

“Things ok with your mom?” Charlie’s eyes are wide with concern.

“Um…" Dean sighs. “It’s...complicated. She’s still in her twenties, for one thing. Barely understands what the Internet is. And she’s...not what I remembered. Not bad, just...different. And I’m not exactly a preschooler anymore and Sammy’s definitely grown a smidge since she last saw him.”

Charlie gives a half-grin. “Yeah, just a smidge.” She pauses, almost steeling herself for the question Dean’s dreading. “And how about...Cas?”

“Charlie—"

She cuts off his protest. “Seriously, no judgments. It’s me, Dean. It’s ok.”

He gets up from the bed and paces a few steps. Finally, he says, hands shrugging before falling to his sides, “You saw the film.”

“Uh huh,” she nods. “And lemme tell ya: the books? Totally don’t do you two justice. The way you two look at each other...”

Dean groans. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re a fan or a whats-it-called.”

“Shipper?” she suggests. “Nah, I would _never_ ship real people, especially people I know, I mean, I might _hope_ that they’re, y’know, happy, but that’s not the same thing.”

He gives her a look. “You’re a crappy liar.”

“So are you if you say you and Cas don’t have _something_ ,” she pushes back, and Dean’s heart hammers with anxiety. He know’s it’s ok, it’s just Charlie, but _fuck_ this is not what he wanted to deal with today. Or ever. Just shove that shit down and drown it in alcohol like he’s supposed to.

“So what,” Dean asks, pacing again, “this why I’m here? You gonna give me an ‘it gets better’ speech? We do a secret handshake or something, and then, what, I’m part of the club?”

Charlie glares at him. “I’m gonna let that slide because you’re obviously upset and you’re here because you’re getting tortured and are kinda mostly dead, and this conversation got pulled out of you and not exactly on your terms. But, not cool, bro.”

Immediately, Dean stops pacing and his shoulders fall with shame. “Sorry. That was...yeah.”

Thankfully, Charlie throws him a bone and seems to accept his pretty shitty apology anyway. “It’s ok. Besides, you gotta reach at least a Pride Level 3 before you learn the secret handshake. Not quite there yet, Padawan.”

“Thanks,” he answers wryly, but he gives a silent apology for his earlier comments anyway. She nods, and he returns to the bed and drops down next to her again. “It’s just...I dunno. Embarrassing, y’know? I’m not that far from fucking _forty_ , ‘suming I make it that long. Aren’t I supposed to have figured all this shit out by now? And Cas is...he’s not even _human_ , never mind the whole pretty much a guy thing.”

A hand comes up to rest on his back near his shoulder. “Doesn’t matter how old you are. It’s never easy. And the not human thing? Man, I’m still pining over Gilda. She was one hot fairy chick.”

“Yeah, she was,” Dean grins, still strangely proud of his pseudo-sister for nearly scoring there...until he and Sam had kind of ruined the whole thing. Except Dean’s going to definitely blame that all on Sam, the Interrupting Moose. Jesus, the number of times Gigantor has lumbered into the middle of maybe _something—_

“Plus,” Charlie says, bringing Dean back to the moment, “I know you and I both have excellent taste when it comes to the ladies, but Cas probably isn’t the first guy to turn your head, am I right?”

"...no,” Dean admits, but at least his breathing is a little easier now. Somehow Charlie just has that effect on him, even if he’s pretty sure he’d rather take on five wendigos and a coupla Leviathan (just to keep it interesting) with his bare hands than have this conversation.

“I don’t think anyone who matters is gonna care either, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Charlie reassures him. “I mean, yeah, you hunters have that whole manly-men thing going on—" Dean swallows back his father’s voice in his head, thankful, and guilty for thinking so, that the man is dead and this didn’t come up on their little memory tour so John couldn’t voice an opinion on the matter. "—but I kinda find it hard to believe there was never a single queer hunter out there before me. Or Dorothy.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “Like, uh, these two we met last year—Jesse and Cesar. Cool guys. Managed to get out of hunting, too, far as we know.”

“See?” she smiles with encouragement, until her face falls a little and Dean furrows his brow in question. “Ok, don’t get me wrong, I’m super glad we got to talk about this and like, wow, never thought anyone would ever pull you away from practically finding Narnia and I’m so proud of you...but I don’t think that was the point of the Cas-o-vision. Or, at least not the whole point.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“You and Sam—" Dean wrinkles his nose at the mention of his brother, given the previous discussion, but Charlie rolls her eyes and continues, “Not like _that_. Ew. I was _gonna_ say, you and Sam and Cas have been through _so_ much, you and Cas especially. Like, tossing the One Ring into the pit of Mount Doom levels of shit.”

“Could say that…"

“And it’s been good and it’s been ugly, and I’ve got a feeling what we saw there was just the tip of the iceberg.”

He huffs a hollow laugh. “Very, very tip.”

“My point is,” Charlie says, “you 'n Cas? Even through all that crap? You two are solid. And if there’s anyone who can get you—and Sam—out of this mess, who’s not going to give up on finding you? It’s Cas. You just gotta remember that.”

He startles at that last bit.

“What’d you say?”

The corners of her mouth turn down. “You just gotta remember—”

 

 

_“Charlie!”_

“Charlie!” he shouts into the void, realizing belatedly that he can hear his real-world voice doing the same.

_“Charlie? Who’s Charlie? Is that who you work for?”_

_“Heh, yeah.”_ The laugh is thick, but Dean can’t tell from here if it’s saliva or blood or just the aftermath of whatever it is they’re dosing him with. _“We’re Charlie’s Angels. W’call Sam ‘Farrah’, ‘cause of th’hair.”_

_“Funny."_

But real-Dean’s laugh comes fuller now, although a little more unhinged, and his words are still a bit slurred. _“Yeah, we’re definitely ‘angels.’”_

Dean chuckles at his own in-joke. Someone’s gotta.

_“Angels. Now, I’m no fool, Mr. Winchester: I can spot a movie reference. But, I’ve also done my research on you and your brother, seen some patterns. Was your plan to kill the President religiously motivated?”_

_“Well, ’s the Devil.”_

_“Original. You pick that up from howtobeaterrorist.com?”_

_“Nah, computer’s fucked: damn porn site viruses. Y’know how it is, dontcha, Chuckles?”_

Dean crashes to his knees with the force of an invisible blow. He can taste copper in his mouth, but when he touches his fingers to his lips, they come back clean. As he hauls himself up, he catches sight of that damn creepy-ass shadowy figure to his side, the only break in this expanse of nothing.

“The hell you looking at?” he grits out.

The figure—man, Dean would guess—doesn’t answer. Dean squints and the man seems to take a more solid form. He’d put the man at about his height, similar build. The man raises an arm and suddenly his features are clearer. It’s _him_ —because this couldn’t get more fun. Why not add another Dean to the mix?

Shadow-Dean winks, sly, and puts a finger to his lips.

“Great,” Dean mutters, but tunes into the real-world conversation again.   

_“Let me guess: you think you’re on a mission from God to kill the President.”_

_“Guess I f’rgot m’sunglasses. B’sides, God’s on vacation. And kind ofa dick. Makes good pancakes, though.”_

_“This is getting nowhere. I thought you said this would get the truth out of him?”_

_“Truth and facts aren’t the same thing, sir.”_

_“Don’t give me that philosophical crap.”_

_“Tha’s what I always say. Fuck philos’phy. Jus’ a buncha bullshit s’ people feel smart.”_

_“Give him another dose.”_

_“Sir, that could kill him.”_

_“Eh, I can take it. Death hasn’ killed me dead so far.”_ Dean isn’t sure if he should roll his eyes at the snark or the fact that his life is so fucked up that that sentence actually makes sense. _“Trus’ me. Seen worse. Jus’ a flesh wound.”_

_“Tempted just to dose him to get him to shut up…"_

_“What was that, Agent?”_

_“Nothing, sir.”_

_“That’s what I thought. Now, Dean, maybe you’re right. Maybe we won’t break you this way. Maybe we should try your brother.”_

_“G’luck. Sam’s a tough sonofabitch.”_ But Dean can hear the tension in his real-voice, the insidious coil of fear and protectiveness that always makes itself known where Sam is concerned.

_“I don’t doubt that. But maybe we won’t ask Sam questions, hm? Whaddya say, Dean? How long you think you can last watching your brother break?”_

_“Sick fuck.”_

_“Hm. Well, we’ll try once more, Dean. And then the real pain starts.”_

 

“Huh. Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes,” a familiar gruff voice says with a good dose of sarcasm.

Dean blinks, grinds a palm into his eye to clear it out, and slowly eases himself off the floor. This shit’s getting old, but at least he knows where he is. He groans as he stands up, then raises an eyebrow in the general direction of the voice, since his vision’s still a little blurry. Whatever they’re doing to him out in the real world, it’s not doing him any favors in here.

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re such a wonder yourself. Friggin’ delight.” But he can’t keep the scowl off his face for long, especially now that his vision’s clear and there’s Bobby—beat-up baseball cap, beard, and all—standing in the middle of his dusty and book-strewn living room, looking at him like he really _is_ a sight for sore eyes. “Hey, Bobby,” he grins.

Bobby doesn’t reply except to hug him tightly, and Dean returns the gesture.

“Dammit, Dean,” Bobby says as he steps back. “What kind of hell you into this time that you got sent here?”

“Uh...Sam and I might’ve gotten busted for trying to kill the President. We weren’t, though.”

“Oh, right. Naturally.” Bobby looks around. “Think this joint is well-stocked? Got a feeling we’re both gonna need it.”

“God, I hope so,” Dean replies, following Bobby in the general direction of the desk. Bobby sinks down into the creaking chair and opens up a drawer.

“Jackpot.” Two scratched tumblers and a bottle of cheap whiskey emerge in Bobby’s hands, and with the ease of probably far too much practice—but hey, look at them, using glasses and not just drinking out of the bottle; what class acts they are—Bobby pours a few measures each. “Ya gonna sit or what?”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

But Dean does sit, stiffly, taking the offered glass. His muscles relax against the hard wooden chair, but his whole body aches and he’s got the start of a bitch of a headache. He takes a sip, relishing the burn of the whiskey—a little self-medicating never hurt nobody, right?

“So, you 'n Sam got it into yer heads to go after the President of the good ol’ U.S. of A., except, what? They didn’t believe you when you said ‘just kidding’?”

Dean frowns. “Well, kinda, but—Bobby, how come you don’t know what’s going on already? I saw my dad and Charlie—y’know, the tech wizard from taking down Dick Roman?” Bobby nods, and Dean continues, “and they knew stuff. I mean, Charlie’s been pulling an Ash and has been tapped into Angel Radio, but my dad knew Mom’s back and that—"

“Your mother’s back?” Bobby, usually unflappable, looks a bit...flapped.

Dean nods, takes another swig. “Yeah, been a weird year.”

“You boys never do nothin’ by halves, do ya?” He shakes his head. “As for why I got no clue what the hell’s goin’ on—well, I’ve been on angelic lockdown ever since Cas busted in helping Sam ‘n you with that Mark of Cain business." Dean stares, shocked and concerned, but Bobby waves him off before he can ask what the hell that means. "You got that sorted out, right?”

“Yeah, if you count having to then Dr. Phil God and his sis the Darkness into taking off on a family bonding vacation." He smirks to himself, thinking, ' _I saved the world with talking, from my mouth.'_  Too bad Bobby wouldn't get that reference; where's Charlie when he needs her? "Oh, and God was Chuck the whole time. And the Darkness is the one who brought back Mom.”

Bobby narrows his eyes. “Chuck, huh? Yeah, heard something ‘bout the Darkness. Even locked up, I picked up on a few things; the angels were all twerked up about it. But your mom was brought back by something called ‘the Darkness’ and all you gotta say is ‘it’s been a weird year’? How do you know she’s not—”

“She’s...ok. Trust me, Bobby, we tested her. Not like coming back from the dead’s exactly new with us.”

Bobby looks disgruntled, but he doesn’t say anything more on the subject, and Dean’s relieved. He’s not sure he really wants to go poking at that hornets nest and this little acid trip’s been an emotional mess and a half already.

“And the President?” Bobby refills his glass, then nods at Dean’s. Dean pushes his forward so Bobby can reach.

“Possessed by Lucifer. And yeah, Ca—we let him out to take down the Darkness. Been trying to put him back in.”

“Huh. Cas let him out?” Because of course Bobby never misses a goddamn thing.

“Wasn’t his fault,” Dean defends automatically, the side of him that wanted to shake Cas or punch him in the face warring with the guilt and heartbreak of seeing the angel so broken.

“Uh huh.” Bobby levels a look at him, which Dean returns. “Well, did it work? Lucifer gone?”

“Far as we know. Been kinda hard to check the news when your whole world is four concrete walls.”

Bobby contemplates the glass in his hand. “So now, I’m guessing you’re getting tortured or whatever and you’re dream walkin’ Heaven or the Veil or whatever this is?”

“It’s been a fun day,” Dean smirks bitterly into his whiskey.

“How’s John?” Bobby asks carefully.

Dean swallows, shrugs. “Same as always.”

Bobby just nods because he knows exactly what Dean means.

“So now what?” Dean asks, even though Bobby has even less of a clue as to what the hell’s going on than he does.

“I look like the Ghost of Christmas Future?” Bobby grunts and Dean rolls his eyes. “You got spooks messin’ ‘round with your melon bad enough that you got saddled with me. Guessin’ there’s a reason.”

“Yeah, they’re really scrapin’ the bottom of the barrel here.”

“Jackass.”

The banter is comforting, familiar. Christ, he’s missed this, missed Bobby. Dean looks around the room, taking in all the details as if for the first time. The reddish-brown wallpaper. The muddy landscapes that were probably a hell of a lot nicer looking when Karen was around to make sure they didn’t collect dust and grime. The worn spot in the rug that’s been known to catch a boot heel or two, until you learned to step over it just out of habit. A place becomes so familiar, you stop noticing all the little stuff, your eye just glides right over it. And then it’s gone and you realize just what you lost. After Bobby’d died, he and Sam had rescued what they could, stashing it in Bobby’s various caches, eventually bringing some to the Bunker, but they’d had to let the place go entirely. Jody told them that she’d had a chat with the guy who’d bought the property—just in case he found anything...unusual—but luckily (if that’s the word for it) the guy had been around for the dead rising in Sioux Falls, so he’d taken it mostly in stride. Dean hasn’t been back since: he doesn’t think he can stand to see what someone else has done with the place that was the closest thing he’d ever had to a homebase before the Bunker, the place that was just as much a part of Bobby as his beard.  

“Alright,” Bobby sighs heavily, but with that grim determination that Dean has seen too many times and is probably responsible for 80% of why they won the Apocalypse, truth be told. “Let’s work this like any other case, figure out what you’re supposed to do here.”

Dean snorts. “I’m being tortured, Bobby. This ain’t an after school special.”

“Fine, wallow,” Bobby shoots back. “I ain’t the one in Gitmo on the outside. So hey, what do I know.”

“Fair.”

“Nothing fair about it, but I am right.” Bobby leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “So, you said you were with John?”

“And then Charlie.”

“Ok, and what’d you talk about or do?”

Dean hesitates. “Uh, my dad and I traipsed through some memories from when I was a kid. Turns out Dad knew Mom was a hunter, or from a hunting family at least.”

Bobby lets that sit for a minute, and Dean studies the older man, part of him wondering whether he knew, too. He’s not sure if he can handle finding out Bobby kept that from him. But the other man’s eyes harden, and he mutters a, “Secretive bastard,” and one of the vice grips on Dean’s heart loosens slightly.

“Right, so, what’d he want you to know that for?”

“I’unno, went on this whole spiel about how me ‘n Sam got a second chance to get to know Mom, like who she really is or whatever.” Dean goes to take a drink and disappointed to find his tumbler is empty. _Damn, that shit evaporates fast_ , he thinks wryly, and pours himself some more, absently noting that the bottle looks just as full as when they started. _Hm. Be damned handy in the real world._

“Uh huh.” Bobby’s jaw works under his beard with his ‘filing that shit away to piece together later’ look. “And Charlie?”

Dean shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Um. We talked about stuff.”

“Oh. Stuff. Yeah, that’s real helpful. Let me get out my codex on _Stuff Through the Ages._ ”

Dean bites the inside of his cheek, wrestling with a barb, a confession, and a denial. He stares at the window—dark and rainy outside; no view of the salvage yard at all. After a long moment, he breaks off his stare into nothing and Bobby fixes him with a look, but there’s a certain measure of understanding and concern beneath the gruffness.

“It’s personal.”

“Son, you’re half-dead and we’re all parading through your subconscious. You don’t get ‘it’s personal’ and privacy at this point, not if you wanna get out of here.” Bobby pauses. “Dean,” he says, a little softer, “I know you ain’t technically my own, but you might as well be. I ain’t cutting you out, no matter what. ‘Sides, I’m dead. Who’m I gonna tell?”

It doesn’t matter that it’s just Bobby; there’s just something about sitting at this desk that makes him feel like he’s sitting on the wrong side of the principal’s desk—an experience he’s way too familiar with, thanks to his friggin’ spectacular academic career. He gets up, whiskey in hand, and paces towards the kitchen.

“Dean?”

Deep breath. Fingers tight on the glass, the bevels digging in.

“We talked about Cas,” he finally admits, as nonchalantly as he can. It’s easier with his back to the man he considers more of a father to him than his own. _That’s safe to say, right? Bobby knows Cas, and Cas has been with us through all kinds of shit, so that’s normal. Right?_

Bobby grunts a _hrmph._ “This s’pposed to be groundbreaking news?”

“Wh-what?” Dean stammers, spinning. He finds a raised, bushy eyebrow staring back at him.

“What? ‘M I s’pposed to be surprised that damn angel’s still attached to you at the hip?”

“Oh,” Dean says, trying to slow his breathing. _Ok, Bobby’s just talking in general. He doesn’t know anything, never suspected._

But Bobby continues, “You two have the most tangled up thing I ever seen. Hell, I thought for sure you were gonna turn into a damn bottle of whiskey when we thought he was dead.”

“Well, yeah, Bobby. World was in the shitter again, Cas was gone, Sam was goin’ _Cuckoo’s Nest_ , and then you—" Fuck, that year was hell. And Dean’s been to Hell.

The room goes quiet for a second, neither of them really willing to wade into that snake pit. Finally, Bobby breaks the silence.

“You can tell me or not tell me whatever you want, but I’m just gonna say that I don’t think your pal Charlie got pulled outta Heaven because _she_ wanted to talk about Cas. From what I remember from haunting her at Dick Roman’s place, don’t think he’s her type.”

“What’re you trying to say?” Dean grits out, the hand not holding his whiskey tightening into a fist.

“Nothing. Just wondering if any sense’d been knocked into that thick head of yours. What can I say, I’m an optimist.” Bobby sits back, crosses his arms, and nods his head in the direction of Dean’s fist by this side. “You planning on hitting me, you might as well do it now, get it out of the way. ‘Less you’d rather hug this out and braid our hair.”

“Bobby—"

“Dean,” the older man cuts in, but his voice is surprisingly not-gruff. “Have a seat. Take a damn breath.”

Reluctantly, Dean returns to the chair and fights the urge to bury his head in his hands.

“So, um—" he coughs out. He studies the desk, finds he can’t meet Bobby’s eyes.

“Son,” Bobby says, “what’d I tell you before?”

He looks up, a little sheepishly, definitely ashamedly. “I’m an idjit?”

“Well, yeah.” Bobby rolls his eyes before landing them squarely on Dean again. “I ain’t cutting you out, no matter what. We clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

A disgruntled snort. “And you can save that ‘sir’ shit for John.” But Bobby gives him a small smile, and Dean feels his breathing slow and the tension in his shoulders relax. “Now that we had our little heart-to-heart, can we get back to figurin’ out why the hell you’re here?”

“Yeah,” he breathes out.

“Good. So, you notice anything about the two people your little memory lane trips were all about?”

“Um, they’re family?” Dean hedges.

“They’re also, conveniently, not dead or stuck in the next cell,” Bobby adds. “And unless Cas has changed his tune in the last coupla years, he ain’t one to sit back and let you rot here.”

“It’s been six weeks.”

“That don’t mean he’s given up. And I never met your mother, but I doubt she’s sitting by, twiddling her thumbs, and catching up on thirty years of soaps.”

Dean huffs. “Yeah, definitely not her thing. Well, the sitting around part. Dunno about the soaps.” His glass is empty again, but instead of pouring out another, he places it next to the bottle on the desk. There’s a faint sense of approval from Bobby, which Dean would point out is kind of hypocritical, and probably pointless considering this isn’t even technically real, so it’s not like his liver cares one way or another. “Bobby,” he says, slowly, surprised the words are coming out of him but it’s like he can’t stop them, “what am I gonna do? Y’know? When I get out?”

He lets the rest of the question go unasked, but Bobby fills in the blanks, and gestures to the room at large with a hand. “Know what this place is?”

“Your house?” Dean deadpans, not getting at all where the other man’s going with this.

“A mausoleum.” Before Dean can protest, Bobby raises a hand. “It is and you know it. When Karen died, part of me died, too.”

“I am not drunk enough for this conversation. Any of this conversation. And neither are you.”

Bobby ignores him, which is probably for the best. “Know what stopped making this place the tomb I was gonna drink myself to death in?”

“Me ‘n Sam—well, me—drinking up all your booze?”

An amused nod. “Close enough.”

“What’s your point, Bobby?”

Except the crafty old bastard can’t just answer a simple question. “Know what the difference between you ‘n me is?”

“Not much, ‘cept the beard.”

“Quit bein’ a smartass. No, the difference is, you got people out there who give a damn about you, and, hell, _love_ you, and you got a chance to let yourself accept that before you’re a cranky old drunk in a salvage yard.”

“Bobby, I can’t.” It’s three words, but there’s a whole lifetime in them.

“Yes, you can. You’re gonna do it because that’s what needs to get done and because you _deserve_ it, dammit.”

There’s such fierce emotion and concern in Bobby’s words that Dean’s almost taken aback, and from some forgotten corner of his mind, he remembers when he broke his leg and Bobby found him in the hospital room—whacked out of his mind on painkillers after leaving a voicemail so fucking desperate he still feels like a jackass for saying it—and Bobby’d just looked at him, smiled, and put a hand on his cheek. Years later, even through the haze of hobbling out of a Leviathan-infested hospital, Dean still remembers that, remembers thinking, _Oh. So that’s what that’s like—having a dad who cares._

“Yeah, yeah, ok,” Dean says, even though he’s not entirely sure he believes it.

“Dean. You’re gonna be fine. You just gotta hold on. And I’m proud of you, boy. And you gotta _remember_ —”     

 

 

Dean opens his eyes—his real ones. They blink against the harsh light of what must be the most clichéd interrogation set-up ever: the chair he’s strapped to is under an obnoxiously bright bulb, and he can just make out the shadowy outlines of the suits just outside the halo of light.

“Welcome back, Mr. Winchester. We thought we’d lost you for a minute.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” His tongue is heavy and he can taste something tangy and metallic—and not just the coppery taste of blood. Every muscle in his body aches down to his bones, and he’s fairly confident the skin around his wrists has been chafed raw by the restraints. His ankles don’t seem to be fairing much better, though they’re somewhat protected by the material of his jumpsuit.

“Now, are you ready to answer our questions? Are you done with this little masochistic martyrdom act?”

A snide voice bubbles up from the recesses of his memory.

_"You telling me you haven’t learned your lesson?"_

_"Oh, I’ve learned a lesson, alright. Just not the one you wanted to teach."_

The laughter wells up from deep within him, and he’s sure the spook in charge thinks he’s gone nuts. Well, let him.

Dean remembers now.

He's spent forty years in Hell, he’s made good on a promise to stab an angel in the fucking face, he’s faced Lucifer more than once, he’s spoken with _God_ , he killed _Death_ (and Hitler, you’re welcome).

He and everyone in his family’s come back from the grave at least once, and honestly, he’s still holding out hope on getting on the head Reaper’s good side for the next time one of them kicks the bucket. He can be a charming bastard when he wants to be.

He’s got the King of Hell on speed dial and, fuck it, he’ll admit it: he kind of likes the guy even for all his demony douchiness.

He’s got a tough as fucking nails little brother who’s not going to break no matter what shit they put him through.

“Sir?” A new voice cuts in, accompanied by the heavy footfalls of combat boots on concrete. “We have a situation.”

He’s got a mother who’s been raising hell since she was born and is one of the best hunters he’s known on the outside.

He’s got a literal Angel of the Lord in his corner, in every sense, and goddammit, he's making sure Cas knows _everything_ once he's outta here.

There’s a red flashing light on the wall and an alarm blares incessantly from somewhere outside the room. There's shouting and orders being barked and boots storming up and down the hall.

He almost feels sorry for these guys.

Almost.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Points to awed-frog for winning the Dean's safeword competiton. (And I did find a gif set of Jensen making the same joke at a panel!)
> 
> Also, I owe y'all some fluff. I've been writing a lot of angsty stuff lately.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos appreciated!
> 
> Check out my other works (sorted by series for easier navigation):  
> [Grey's works](http://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/series)  
> Come visit me on Tumblr! @[grey2510](https://grey2510.tumblr.com/)


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